Humpday Story: After Hours on the Full Moon

AfterHoursOnTheFullMoon_Coverv1All sorts of men drink at the Squatter’s Dive bar, and Cheryl meets all of them. The bartender’s perk. Cleavage helps with the tips though.

But the cutest guys always come in with ladies on their arms. Even the lonely man at the end of the bar seems to be no exception. Handsome, well dressed, and clearly waiting for a date.

But would he go for a bartender with exotic tattoos on both arms?

If you enjoy smart and sexy erotica, be sure to read After Hours on the Full Moon.

***

AFTER HOURS ON THE FULL MOON

1

He sat at the far end of the bar, near the front doors and far away from the stage, facing away from Cheryl. A handsome man, but not like the regulars at all. Clean shaved, dark, roguish good looks but not Hollywood stunning. He wore jeans and a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

She watched him in the mirror behind the bar. Seemed like the nice type of man, with a nice smelling musky cologne that she thankfully couldn’t smell from this far away and easy dimples in his cheeks. Not the type to be chasing a girl with tattoos on both arms.

Waiting for a date? Probably… He sat tall, back straight, shoulders relaxed.

Tonight the bar was hot. Uncomfortably so. Cheryl’s panties felt wadded up in her ass crack, but maybe only because she was working so hard. She had bitched to Robert to fix the air or she’d leave for good this time. Bound to happen one day, anyway. Problem was, she enjoyed her night job, and the rent on the upstairs apartment was just right for a student.

Cheryl went up to the man, and wiped away peanuts and spilled beer from the previous customer. Squatter’s Dive smelled constantly of spilled beer, peanuts, and fried cheese. Even on Saturday mornings when Cheryl came in to mop the floor, the smell was ever present.

The music was usually good, though tonight the guitarist and singer were out of key with each other. The cheese was always great.

“What’s your poison?” She leaned forward, elbows on the bar, letting her low-cut tank top fall open a tad. Cheryl wasn’t well endowed, but the men tipped well when she flashed a little skin.

He turned around in the barstool and flashed her a smile. His teeth were pearly white, and damned if he didn’t have a twinkle in his eyes. Perhaps it was the funky blue and green lighting in the bar.

“Bacardi and Coke,” he said. He glanced down at her breasts, and then looked her in the face. “No ice, please.”

For once, Cheryl was disappointed a man stared into her eyes instead of lower.

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She tossed a paper coaster in front of him.

He turned away, gazing again at the front doors. Like many of the guys who drank here, he’d probably leave with a girl on his arm.

Cheryl would have her law books, and she’d sleep naked with a battery operated toy.

The band hit the final chords of the song they were on and let the reverb hang too long. The drummer crashed the cymbals as if he wanted to purposely annoy every dog in a five block radius.

Usually the music was good. Tonight, Robert had hired a doozy of a band. They were retro-grunge with out of season flannel shirts and acid-eaten jeans. Cheryl couldn’t even remember their name.

She made the drink and brought it to him. When the “music” died down enough for normal sound, she leaned forward again.

“Cheers, mate,” she said.

He glanced back over his shoulder and grabbed the glass, hand just a hair away from her left boob. His mouth moved in what appeared to be a “thank you”, but the band had already started up again. Sounded like “Kick Start My Heart”, but without any discernible bass or recognizable lyrics.

Cheryl served, chatted, and flirted with her other customers. Old guys with receding hairlines and beer-bellies, handsome punks with pretty dates, ladies on girl’s night out.

The man with the twinkle in his eye sat alone, but gave up his vigil on the front door, drink still not downed. He stared at Cheryl, and when she stared back with a wink and a smile, he found his rum and soda more interesting.

A drunk at table five threw a beer bottle at the stage, and hit the lead singer below the belt. The bottle left a liquid trail from his crotch down the torn up jeans to his fire-engine red Chuck Taylors, and shattered on stage.

The singer yelped and jumped back. The guitarist kept smashing the fretboard, face hidden by massive dreadlocks.

Bob the bouncer (not to be confused with Robert the manager) picked up the guy at table five by the scruff of the neck. The drunkard flailed his arms all the way to the door, smacking other patrons in the head on the way past.

Meanwhile, the singer knocked over his microphone, kicked the bass drum hard, and stormed off stage to the back room.

The dreadlock guitar boy caught a clue, stopped played mid-measure, and looked confusedly to his band-mates. They all walked off stage.

The entire bar applauded and cheered.

Cheryl used the humorous situation as a mask to keep smiling and nodding. She made her way back to the other end of the bar.

“Does this happen often?” said the roguish man in the black shirt.

“Only on Saturdays,” said Cheryl. “Must be the full moon.”

“I should come here more often.”

“Waiting for a lady friend?” Cheryl couldn’t help herself. She half hoped the lady was a tramp. Or didn’t show up at all.

There really was a twinkle. His eyes were dark, Mediterranean. Italian descent?

“Yeah.” Another good look at his pearly whites. “She recommends this place. Said she comes here all the time.”

“Oh?” said Cheryl. “I work here all the time, seems. Maybe I know her.”

“Perky. Blond. About my height.”

“You described half the women here.”

“At least I didn’t describe you.” He lifted his glass in salute, then, when thinking about his phrasing, meekly retreated the toast with slumped shoulders.

Cheryl smacked his wrist like a school teacher disciplining a youngster, leaning forward on the bar again, this time on only one elbow. She had dyed black hair, originally mousy brown, and sure in hell wasn’t perky in the way he meant. About the right height though, or so she guessed. Hard to tell from the wrong side of a bar.

“What are you gawking at anyway?” she said.

“Oh. Nothing.” He sipped his rum and Coke.

She poked his elbow. “Come on. I won’t tell your girlfriend.”

“Just admiring your tattoos.”

Cheryl had a pair of twin dragons, one on each arm. Their tails wrapped around each other at her shoulder blades. The lithe bodies slithered in spirals down her arms.

“Check it out.” She pressed her forearms together. The dragons’ tongues kissed at top of her wrists.

“Wow,” he said. “I… I’ve never seen that before.”

“Hope you never do again,” said Cheryl, winking. “Makes a great conversation starter here. Means I have to wear long sleeves at court.”

“You at court often?”

“Only when I’m bad.”

“What? I took you to be the warm cuddly type. My mistake.”

“Fine, mister,” Cheryl laughed. “But you only get one!”

A woman came in the door right then. Tall, blond, perky. With a Gucci bag and a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Date’s here,” Cheryl pointed.

He turned around. Whatever slouch was in his shoulders disappeared. Color flushed in his cheek and ear. Cheryl found that cute.

The blond bitch couldn’t be good enough for him.

“Not her,” he said.

She was glad. For him, of course.

“She’ll show up,” Cheryl said. “Flag me down when you want a another, okay?”

She didn’t intend a double meaning there.

He nodded anyway, the dimples returning.

She attended her other customers. Canned music now played from the speakers. Cheryl refilled his rum and soda. Then got him a Killian’s. And a Rolling Rock.

More people flooded the bar, then left. Until after midnight the bar was near empty, odd for a Friday but no bother. The music was a quiet background beat. Bob mopped the floor. The line cooks punched out. Cheryl did her share of cleaning, and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

The full body bean aroma clashed and mixed with the smell of bleach and cleaning suds.

The man in the black shirt remained, alone on the same damn stool at the end of the bar, slouching over his beer bottle as if it were his only friend in the world. No perky blond hung on his arm.

The twinkle most certainly wasn’t there.

2

Cheryl set two ceramic mugs in front of the mystery man who got stood-up, and poured coffee. Steam rose, perking her up after a long afternoon and night of work. Her feet were sore as hell inside her tennis shoes, the ache throbbing it’s way up her calves and thighs.

Only the stragglers stayed behind, and they weren’t hard to take care of.

“Coffee’s on me,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Looks like I need it?”

The reek of rum and beer overshadowed the nice cologne he’d come in with. His speech was slurred and slow. One of a bartender’s superpowers is translating drunk talk. Sometimes that meant smiling and nodding at the right moments.

She didn’t want to just smile and nod for him. No, this man deserved so much more, and maybe she could at least keep him company.

“Looks like you lost a fist fight to a kitten,” said Cheryl, extending her red polished nails into a claw. “I could add some scratch marks to make it more convincing.”

He laughed. Might’ve been the booze doing the work for him, but it sounded genuine from the pit of his stomach.

“Pete,” he said.

Cheryl introduced herself. Pete grabbed her hand and shook it, squeezing her knuckle bones ever so slightly. He held on a long moment too much, eyes tracing the dragon’s curved body up her wrist and forearm, to her bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry she didn’t show,” said Cheryl. She meant it too. Nobody deserved to go home lonely. Especially a man like Pete.

Pete sipped his coffee. “Wow, that’s hot!”

“The better to sober you,” she said.

“Isn’t your job to get people drunk?”

“It’s a complicated affair.” She brought the coffee to her nose, sniffed it. Smelled bitter enough to slay any bad mood, strong enough to resurrect the dead. “Need cream or sugar?”

“Both, please,” said Pete. He sipped, and his face scrunched. He raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment. “Wondering if you were killing me with whatever this is.”

Cheryl turned around to grab the creamer and sugar bowls. In the mirror behind the bar, she could see Pete. Watching her. Her jeans hugged her hips like a second skin, exactly why she wore them when working. She was used to men staring, occasionally touching and being too forward. Part of the job, and she had ways to discourage without being off-putting. The attention was sometimes annoying, infuriating when from the wrong men, and—amazingly—at the same time empowering.

She stalled, letting Pete stare. Allowing him to imprint the image in his head.

“So,” she said, spoiling his view by turning around. She set the cream and sugar by his cup. “Tell me about her.”

“What? Oh,” he said. “Nothing you want to hear.”

“Pete,” said Cheryl, and handed him the stir straws. “I’m a bartender. What else do you think I do? Besides get you drunk and then sober you with radioactive coffee?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, picking an orange colored straw and stabbed it into his coffee. Pete dumped two creams and three sugars, and stirred.

“I cleaned the entire house,” he said at last. “Vacuumed the floors. Cleaned the bathtub and toilet. Washed a load of towels. Had fresh food on hand for breakfast.”

“That’s a lot of work for a no-show,” said Cheryl.

Pete waved his hand, nodding sagely. He blew the steam off his coffee and took a another tentative sip. No scrunch or evil eye glare.

She leaned forward, on her elbows, not directly in front of him this time. She wasn’t working for a tip anymore. The money was good tonight, near five hundred in cash. And he was nearly the last customer. A sacred bond existed between bartender and the final straggler to leave. It was the one-on-one attention with a stranger, the desire to notice and be noticed, and be the only two people in the universe for a moment.

He still glanced over at her breasts.

This time, the attention was empowering.

“We met at a birthday party,” said Pete. “Mutual friend. Buddy of mine, in fact.”

“Not a bad place to meet.”

“Except when that band is playing,” he pointed to the stage. “Last time the lead singer dumped a kegger on his head and fell on top of the crowd. The mosh pit let him fall on his ass.”

“Too funny.”

“Can’t think of the band’s name,” he said.

“Me neither.”

Damn the two word responses! What was wrong with her tonight?

They sipped coffee, the silence hung in the air between them like an Arabian java bean cloud. Cheryl stretched her legs out, one by one, the hamstrings and calves burning. Even though she couldn’t wait to feel the cool touch of lube on her clit, Cheryl didn’t want to go upstairs to her electric vibrator just yet. The night was too early, and Pete was too sexy. She’d never study tonight, even if she had to take the bar tomorrow at eight sharp.

How did she talk to complete strangers all night, but couldn’t carry on a conversation with a handsome fellow?

“What was her name?” Cheryl asked. Stupid question! Why did she even care? Well, she was a bartender…

“Who cares?” said Pete. “I won’t see her again.”

“Why not? Maybe she had a good reason?”

“Cheryl,” Pete leaned forward, lowering his voice as if to share a secret. Without thinking, she leaned forward too, ear near his lips. “We were meeting for one reason.”

“Oh?” she said, whispering in his ear. “Can I guess the reason?”

“I’ll give you three. Bet you only need one.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I think you were going to watch movies with her.”

Her voice came across sultry, as if she were having phone sex with Pete instead of chatting with him across from a bar. Cheryl shifted her hips. A small collection of porno movies were hidden inside her DVD cabinet. She’d had a long enough day, perhaps she was just telling him what she wanted to do.

“Kind of right,” said Pete. Now his voice was husky and raw. His lips were so close to her skin, the fine hairs on her neck tingled. “Good thing I didn’t really bet.”

“Maybe you were going to play a game with her,” said Cheryl. Sure, why not tell him what she wanted? No one ever got hurt with a little harmless flirting. Especially when it wasn’t direct.

“You could say that,” he said.

This close, Pete’s cologne smelled so musky and warm, only slightly overshadowed by alcohol and joe. Cheryl stuck her ass out further, imagining what it’d be like if he were behind the bar with her, fucking her doggy style.

She touched his arm with the tips of her fingers. His skin was hot, the coarse hair smooth to the touch. Closer, near enough to bite his ear. The tip of one breast so close, all he had to do was reach up and grab if he wanted.

Her lips moved, but her brain had little control now. “And then strip her down like a naughty whore and…”

“Whoa! Which of us is drunk? I forgot.”

“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, bolting upright. Blood rushed to her head, flushing her cheeks hot. Her fingers wrapped around her mug’s handle, and she brought the coffee to her lips to hide. “It’s late. I’ve worked all day. Didn’t have to go there…”

Pete held up hand and limp-wrist waved. “No worries. Unless you treat all customers like this.”

“No.”

“Too bad. I was thinking of recommending all my buddies come here.”

“I can only make one man come a night. One of my rules.”

Pete reached into his back pocket and got out a brown, stained and beaten up wallet. “I’d like to know some of your other rules.”

“What for?” said Cheryl.

“So I can play your game,” said Pete. “What do I owe?”

“On me. Phrasing… The drinks are on me, cowboy.”

He laughed, color spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. His smile was infectious and disarming. Cheryl couldn’t help but share in the humor.

“I must owe something,” Pete said. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Just feels wrong otherwise.”

“What kind of woman do you take me for?”

“The kind I’d take home to mother.”

“Aw, how sweet.” Cheryl lightly smacked his cheek with her fingertips. “But before that happens, my apartment is upstairs.”

A tense, silent moment passed. Pete folded the Ben Franklin in half, gaze downward as if pondering life’s mysteries. Cheryl held her breath, wondering what would happen next. Would he respond to her come-on in good humor, and they’d laugh it off like good friends?

Did she need her toy tonight?

Pete reached out, and shoved the money down her low-cut tank top, inside her bra just above the lace. Her heart hammered against the touch, his fingers warm and rough.

“I finish here in an hour,” Cheryl said.

“Can’t wait,” he said. “Gives me enough time to sober up.”

“I’d appreciate that,” she took his hand and leaned forward as if to kiss him. “One more thing.”

“Anything.”

“What’s her name?”

“Really? Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“Brenda,” he said.

“I promise one thing,” said Cheryl. “By the end of the night, you won’t remember her name.”

3

The next hour passed uneventfully, but tense. Cheryl cleaned, taking breaks only to stretch her aching back and legs now and then. A hot shower would hit the spot, but she couldn’t help but think about the spot she hoped Pete would hit.

He used the restroom twice, and drank two more cups of bitter sugar-filled coffee. He talked with Bob the bouncer, watched the late night talk show on the big screen TV, and relaxed in a way he hadn’t earlier. Before the coffee, he’d been either slouching or sitting upright as if a pole had been shoved in his ass. Now he was poised, confident, shoulders thrown back, but at ease.

Cheryl tried hard not to stare at him. Staying busy helped. There was a floor to mop, glassware to get to the dishwasher, prep work for the next shift.

Then she’d take a sip from her now cold and stale coffee, and stare at Pete through the mirror. Watching him laugh at the TV, dump more sugar into his java, run his fingers through his thick hair.

And then she’d see Bob in the mirror too, shaking his bald head and chuckling. He worked fast, a skip to his step, taking out trash and wiping down tables as if giant red devil were lashing him to move ever quicker. Maybe he had someone waiting for him at home.

The whole time, Cheryl wondered: Would Pete mind if I showered first? Could I get him into the shower with me? Do I want to do that? Should I shave my twat? Would he like that?

The hour dragged on for an eternity of questions with no answers, and then it ended. The last drunkards left. Bob bid her a good night with a knowing wink. Cheryl tossed the coffee mugs on the dish-line for the morning crew.

“You ready?” she asked, keys in hand.

“What do you think I was doing in the bathroom?” Pete said.

“Draining the booze out of your system.” She locked the front doors and punched in the code on the pad for the security system. “And that better be all you drained, mister.”

He shrugged, hands in his front jeans pockets. “It’s mostly gone.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and yanked one hand out of his pocket. His palm was warm and sweaty. She led him through the kitchen, past the ripe smells of burnt meat and fried food, up the back stairs with the creaky steps, unlocked her apartment door, and pushed him inside.

“Mi casa, su casa,” she said, waving one arm gracefully about.

“Lovely place,” he said. “Not what I expected above a bar.”

“What you expected? Lava lamps and shaggy green carpet?”

When first moving in, that had been what the place looked like. Since, she’d blackmailed Robert into painting the walls and putting down a cream colored carpet, giving the old hangout a clean and fresh, homey smell. Not an ounce of remorse passed her brain, since the apartment needed a remodel to match the downstairs renovations.

Cheryl kicked off her tennis shoes at the door, and Pete did the same. The main room was small and cozy, big enough for a three-person sofa,  a TV, some tables, and a whole lot of books.

Pete pointed at the bookcases lining the wall adjacent to her thirty inch TV. “More like, I didn’t expect a library of law textbooks.”

“Oh, you know. Girl’s got to have hobbies.”

“So you’re a law student?” he said.

“Cliche.”

“But awesome.” Pete’s dark, Italian eyes lit up. “Guess you weren’t joking about being in court.”

“I’m second year. With luck, I won’t need the bartending gig much longer.”

“Good,” he said. “I mean, for you. I did similar stuff when I was a student. Waiter, retail clerk, other things I don’t want to mention.”

“Oh?” Cheryl dropped her keys in the crystal ashtray, on the hickory hutch behind the sofa. “Anything I’ll see you in court for?”

“Naw, nothing like that. Just didn’t care for those jobs.”

She yanked on his dress shirt, the silky smooth fabric slick under her fingers, and maneuvered him to the sofa. One leg folded up beneath her, she sat first. He followed suit, tilted away from her at an angle.

“What do you do now?” Cheryl didn’t entirely let go of his shirt, his chest and ab muscles firm under her touch. Pete tensed when she wandered near his belt.

“I own Eighth Street Books,” he said, clutching her hands in his. “Not far from your school.”

“Really? Do you carry law books? Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”

“Maybe I’d like that.”

“Maybe?” Cheryl inched closer, still keeping a safe distance.

“Well, assuming you don’t kill me tonight. Otherwise, yes.”

“What if I kill you only a little bit?” Closer. Enough to sneak a peck on the lips if she chose. Far away enough to retreat if she creeped him out too much.

“La petit mort?” he said.

Oiou,” she said, eyes half shut, lips so very near his. Electricity fizzled between them.

Pete cupped a hand behind her head, bringing her the rest of the way.

He kissed her first.

A sweet, gentle peck, followed by the press of wet lips and his tongue. Blood rushing to her head, Cheryl shivered in the excitement. Every nerve raw and frayed, she loosened to the rhythm of his kissing.

It had been far too long since she’d last been touched like this.

Fumbling about with limb and body positions, she climbed onto Pete, into his lap, her legs straddling his waist. She pinned him to the couch. No escape for him now. Pete wrapped his arms around her torso, bringing her into his warmth, like a cocoon.

Lips locked, fingers shaking, Cheryl teased the buttons of his shirt, not quite getting two undone. The skin underneath was smooth like polished glass and burnt fiery hot. Shaking with frustration, Cheryl pushed herself away. She hadn’t noticed she stopped breathing. Each pant hurt like a rough tickle.

“This,” she said. “This is your last chance. To escape.”

Pete grabbed her forearms, sliding his hands up the dragons’ bodies.

“Which way to the bedroom?” he said.

4

Cheryl dragged Pete into her bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, as best she could at any rate. She hit the light-switch with her elbow and yanked off her top.

The room was just big enough for a queen size bed and a night table. It smelled clean, the floor had been vacuumed not long ago, and she’d made the bed this morning. Not bad for an unplanned one-nighter.

She pulled back the bed covers.

The curtains were still open. She went to the window, fingers on the drawstring to close the blinds. Outside, the full moon shone bright.

Pete touched her shoulder blades, tracing the curved lines of dragon tails to her arms. He pushed her hair out of the way, and kissed her neck, right below the ear. A tingly, raw sensation settled into the pit of her stomach and spread out across her body, into her limbs.

Stranger things happened on full moon nights.

Cheryl dropped the blinds and closed the curtains. Half turning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his dress shirt down his shoulders. Pete pulled her in, kissing her, exploring her mouth with his tongue.

A belt buckle loosened and rattled. Cheryl dug her fingernails into his hair, yanking and pulling his head about to kiss him deeper. A zipper unzipped. Pants dropped to the floor. Silky boxers rubbed against her bare stomach.

Pete was already hard. The tip was wet.

He pushed her to the bed. Cheryl gasped for breath, undoing her own belt buckle. Eager, sweating, fingers not entirely functioning right. Pete helped her with the zipper and yanked off the tight jeans one leg at a time. The black lace panties slid off  too.

She reached out and pulled down his boxers. His cock flopped out, springing at attention. Pete was just the right size, above average, a big mushroom head, a tight ball sack.

Cheryl clung to him, legs wrapped around his. Sucking and licking his nipples, she stroked him one handed, gliding gently up and down his shaft. She stroked the tip, feeling the ridges and the hot, sticky precum pouring out of him. Pete shivered and gasped and pulled her hair.

The room heated up. Boiling hot. Fingers pressed into her shoulders. Pete pushed her onto her back. He placed a pillow under her head, and adjusted his body over hers. She spread her legs, letting him kiss her, hoping for more.

One finger on her clit, Pete rocked her steady. Her body tightened, heart pumping fast, every part of her numb and sensitive at the same time.

Her pussy became wet. He massaged her faster, dipping a finger inside, pulling out. She wanted to stroke him. Get his cock inside her. Something… but she was trapped underneath him, at his mercy.

Finally, slow and gentle, Pete slid deep into her, stretching her out little by little. Cheryl gasped when he was balls deep. She clung to him by the neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. A sweet moment of sweaty bliss passed, face to face, lips touching but not locked, bodies pressed together in a hot mess.

Cheryl bucked against him, wanting more, now. His breath was sultry hot. Still, quiet, moving only a nudge, Pete rotated his hips. She closed her eyes to slits. Every nerve in her body screamed for attention.

One more kiss, sweet and wet. And then Pete pumped. Again and again, faster. Rougher with each thrust.

He slowed, catching his breath, letting her catch hers, and shared a kiss. Pete took her hand, his fingers entwined with hers, and he pinned her to the bed with his other hand in her hair. The bed squeaked and moaned under their bouncing. She breathed in short gasps, her heart pounding faster and faster.

Time blurred and slowed for Cheryl. Their skin made thwapping noises. Louder, harder. Closer.

Her pussy tightened and spasmed around his cock. She shuddered against his body, her orgasm rattling her to the core.

Pete pulled out inch by excruciating inch. Still holding her hand, he stroked himself. Face tensed, brows pinched together, he squeezed her hand tighter. A hot spurt erupted across her stomach, across her bra. Some of it sprayed on her chin. He sighed, relaxing back into her embrace, pressing his semen between them.

Another kiss, this time lazier, half-hearted with no tongue. Pete flopped over on his side, opening his arms, welcoming her to sleep.

She laid side by side with him, warm fluids from both of them coating her body. Settling into his arms, something crinkled underneath her, near her breast.

Cheryl slipped two fingers into her bra, and pulled out the hundred dollar bill Pete had tipped her. Chuckling from exhaustion, she flicked the money away and closed her eyes.

.***

Thank you for reading! If you would like to purchase this story, you can find it at your favorite retailer. Or feel free to leave a tip with the PayPal button below.



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Author: D. Anthony Brown

Writer of speculative fiction.

3 thoughts on “Humpday Story: After Hours on the Full Moon”

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